The Man Who Rewrote Pop History

The unlikely rise of Lenny Davies from a luckless early schoolleaver to one of Britain's most powerful pop entrepreneurs is one of the great success stories of the sixties. Born in Hayes, Middlesex, Davies followed the lead of most local working-class lads by joining the nearby EMI factory. There he worked as a packer, an unchallenging job that allowed the teenager to fantasize about more exotic lifestyles. By the time Elvis became a household name with `Heartbreak Hotel', Davies's dreams of stardom were about to be tested. The ambitious youngster auditioned for EMI as a singer and to everyone's surprise, he passed. Seeking a more professional name for recording purposes, Lenny remembered Larry Parks, the star of The Jolson Story, and henceforth became known as Larry Page.
In spite of his youth, Page was canny enough not to be swept off his feet by a recording contract. Even after his debut disc was released, he continued working at the EMI factory, occasionally packing his own records as they whisked by on a conveyor belt. Page did not remain unknown for long. His fame spread thanks to the intervention of Jack Bentley, the renowned show business columnist of the Sunday Mirror. Larry recalls their first meeting with some amusement:

He came up to me convinced that I was the best man at Tommy Steele's wedding [Steele was not yet married but the Press were anxious for a scoop]. He came down to see me at Reading and it was all very heavy - `Now I know Tommy's married. I can either make or break you'. It scared the bloody pants off me because it was a real threat job. I said I knew nothing about it.

Bentley failed to get his Tommy Steele scoop, but he was kind enough to write a feature extolling the virtues of another young talent whom he dubbed `Larry Page- the Teenage Rage'.
The Teenage Rage lived up to his name and before long his exploits were attracting considerable press coverage. The dearth of homegrown teenage talent in fifties Britain encouraged the media to latch on to any aspiring star capable of providing good copy. Pop stars were treated like adolescent gods whose virility seemed inextricably linked with their bachelorhood: the cardinal sin was marriage Like several of his contemporaries, including Tommy Steele, Marty Wilde and Terry Dene, Page discovered that one human interest story could create greater attention than a number 1 hit. When Larry boldly announced his engagement to a young fan following a whirlwind eight-hour romance, the phone never stopped ringing. His marriage at Caxton Hall was attended by a posse of journalists and made front page news in the national press. The exposure was incredible. Even Mrs May Davies contributed to the drama by threatening to boycott the wedding on the grounds that the couple were too young. Naturally, she relented at the last minute. When the marriage later hit troubled waters Larry was in the news again, addressing full-scale press conferences for the most melodramatic pop star feature since the saga of Terry Dene and Edna Savage.
Apart from his marital status, the media displayed an inordinate interest in the colour of Larry's hair. `What the hell was he doing appearing on stage with blue-rinsed locks?' was the big question of the day. Like many pop star images, it was the result of a happy accident. During rehearsals for a television show, the make-up department noticed that the floor lighting exaggerated the fairness of his hair, so he was dragged off for a dark tint. Following the show, Larry was due to appear at the Granada, Walthamstow, and his schedule was so tight that there was no time to rinse out the dye. Under the harsh theatre lights, the blue tint was accentuated and within hours of the show Larry's latest `outrage' was a subject of great gossip among pop pundits. The press went as far as fabricating a feud between the blue-rinsed Larry Page and the orange-haired Wee Willie Harris. It was slapstick rock 'n' roll comedy at its best and the press loved it all.
In spite of all the media exposure, Larry failed to crack the charts with a sizeable hit. Like Vince Eager and the second battalion of Parnes' teen idols, Page appeared on a number of top-rated television and radio programmes but his recordings were generally unimpressive. Page was an anodyne rocker and monotone crooner whom Bruce Welsh of the Shadows later described as `the worst singer I ever heard in my life'. Larry admits that most of his discs were `terrible', but there was one song that he was particularly pleased about recording before any of his rivals:

In those days you had no control over whet you were doing. My producer said, `I've found this song, "That'll Be The Day". It won't be released in this country because it's terrible. We're going to record it'. The backing was Goof Love and his Orchestra and the Rita Williams Singers. It was the biggest load of crap you ever heard. But I was the first person in Britain to cover a Buddy Holly song end I had the opportunity of meeting him when he was over, which was great. Unlike many of his contemporaneous teen idols, Page was astute enough to realize that his professional singing career would not survive the fifties. His manager, Maurice King, who later handled the Walker Brothers, was a tough professional, but unadventurous in comparison to Parnes. Page spent a lot of time in and around Denmark Street, where many small-time managers, not governed by Parnes' integrity, sought short-term profits from gauche teen idols:

I never really found a manager who did the job for me. All the television I got myself, recording contracts, everything. I think managers were of the opinion that artistes were the enemy end that's how they should be treated. You could be sent out to buy a dozen suits from 'Mr X' and straightaway you'd have a hefty bill against your account. That seemed to be the way to work, to keep you in debt all the time. As long as you were in debt you were under the thumb.

Although Page was never fleeced, he made little money from singing and grew tired of hearing the phrase `This is the glory!' as an excuse for poor pay. As the fifties wound to a close, Larry decided to retire from the pop business and moved to Wales where he managed a pub.
The former Teenage Rage rapidly became bored with the quiet life and was easily won back into the entertainment business by the garrulous Eric Morley of Mecca Enterprises. Mecca was busy converting dying cinemas and theatres into a network of ballrooms and Page was hired as a consultant manager. Essentially, his job was to select a suitable venue and spend three months working on a relaunch. If the results were profitable, Mecca poured further money into the scheme. Inevitably, Page found himself surrounded by young singers attempting to secure bookings at the ballroom and this precipitated his involvement in pop management. Word soon spread in music business circles that Page was establishing himself as a talent spotter with considerable flair and business acumen. Before long, his Coventry ballroom was besieged by several of the most influential producers, pop moguls and music publishers of the early sixties. Phil Solomon and Eddie Kassner virtually fell over each other in their attempts to entice the former pop star back to London. After considering a number of tempting offers, Larry decided to throw in his lot with music publisher Eddie Kassner. The decision was eminently logical. With Kassner spending most of his time in the States, Page was certain that the executive power of which he dreamed would not be diluted by the overbearing presence of an elder partner. A company named Denmark Productions was formed, allowing Page to select and manage artistes in return for passing the publishing rights over to Kassner.
Before leaving Coventry, Page was responsible for launching several minor-league artistes, any one of whom might have hit the charts with better luck and the right song. Johnny B. Great (Johnny Goodison) was a club favourite who appeared on many major pop tours before emerging as a successful songwriter in the seventies, penning the Brotherhood of Man's `United We Stand' and several minor hits. Steel Naylor recorded several tracks with producer Shel Talmy, including a vocal version of Dave Davies's `One Fine Day', but it was not until 1972 that he finally hit the top as a member of Lieutenant Pigeon ('Mouldy Old Dough'). Perhaps Page's oddest discovery from this period was the Orchids, a trio of pre-pubescent Liverpool girls, who had to be seen to be believed. Their publicity photos made the most of their puppy fat, dour school uniforms and love of ice lollies. Shel Talmy pulled out all the stops in the studio in an attempt to establish the sound of these white underripe Ronettes, but-the public refused to accept the bait.
Page named his girl group after Coventry's Orchid Ballroom, a venue where he frequently hosted talent contests in search of undiscovered stars. One hopeful candidate was an Irishman, fresh from the Bayswater Community Pioneer Band. Dick Hayes took on all-comers at Coventry and looked set for stardom when he won first prize in Page's knockout talent show - a five-year recording contract with Decca. After signing with Denmark Productions, Hayes underwent a name change and emerged as Little Lenny Davies. It was over 20 years later before he finally discovered that he had been named after his own manager! Page's attempt to recreate himself in microcosm was an extraordinary move, typical of a man who would later attempt to rewrite his own history. The rechristening was partly a private jest, but Hayes was never allowed to appreciate this irony as a successful artiste. After recording one single, `Little Schoolgirl', and auditioning for Ready Steady Go, the career of Little Lenny Davies was all but forgotten. The follow up, `Tomboy', was recorded as a demo but never released. Unfortunately, Page was far too busy concentrating on more important projects to spend time administering the career affairs of his young charge. It is not difficult to see why. By 1964, Hayes was a pop artiste out of time. His repertoire of ballads and old hits by Ricky Nelson, Cliff Richard, Pat Boone and Neil Sedaka seemed decidedly passe in the context of the all-consuming beat boom. Disappointed at missing his one chance of pop glory, Little Lenny Davis returned to Waterford where he cashed in on his `recording artiste' status by forming the ironically titled Dick and the Decca. Eventually, he secured a job in a factory, thereby re-enacting his manager's career in chronological reverse.

Page, meanwhile, had found the pop group that would secure his reputation as one of the greatest managers of the mid-sixties. The Ravens were a north London pub group, lately discovered by a society gentleman, Robert Wace, who briefly sang with them before assuming management responsibilities. In partnership with a stockbroker friend, Grenville Collins, he secured the group several dates playing society functions, and then sought the services of an experienced music business specialist. That person was Larry Page, who agreed to take the group on for a 10 per cent management commission plus the placing rights on their musical compositions. The rechristened Kinks now had three managers with contrasting personalities, backgrounds and experience.' In one sense, this dilution of power offered the possibility of democratic leadership, but the individual parties would find it difficult to accept each other as equals. This notion of Page and W ace as mirror opposites was even reflected in the naming of their respective companies. Denmark Productions took its title from Denmark Street, the seedy Tin Pan Alley area of Soho where Page and Kassner rented offices. W ace and Collins registered their company as Boscobel Productions, after Boscobel Place in Knightsbridge where Robert was living.

The influence that Page exerted over the Kinks during 1964 was considerable. In an attempt to emulate the success of the anti-authoritarian Rolling Stones, Larry encouraged the boys to exude aggression and sexuality onstage, an image that was reinforced by their new name and a photo session in which they were shown in black leather shamelessly brandishing riding whips. The shock tactics proved effective and later in the year the group received considerable publicity following an appearance at Basildon New Town, Essex, where over a thousand teenagers invaded the Locarno Ballroom stage in an unexpected outbreak of fan hysteria. In the background, Page enjoyed his role as image consultant, eagerly instructing the boys to use their guitars as phallic symbols in order to exaggerate their 'kinkiness'.
Long before the Kinks' image had been formulated, Page paid particular attention to their all-important-development as a musical group, pushing Ray Davies into the spotlight as a singer and songwriter. Long discussions ensued during which the fifties pop star lectured his young charge on the importance of simple, straightforward guitar tiffs as a blueprint for hit success. Together, they worked on an instrumental number, `Revenge', which served as a prototype for many of the musical ideas that followed. Davies continued to search for distinctive riffs, finally breaking through with three massive sellers: `You Really Got Me', `All Day And All Of The Night' and `Tired Of Waiting For You'. Within 12 months of Page's appointment, the Kinks were the third most successful pop group in Britain and their earnings had rocketed to an astonishing £90 000-a-year.

If the Kinks assimilated the creative ideas of Larry Page, then they also inherited his love of political intrigue. Most commentators have interpreted the group's general unruliness as a product of sibling rivalry, but surely it was much more than this. There is no evidence to suggest that the Ravens were ever troubled by violent conflict, but as soon as the Kinks were christened and the tripartite management agreement signed, tension increased and multiplied. The Davies brothers not only bickered among themselves, but frequently united in order to wage war on their scapegoat drummer. The much abused Mick Avory was both peacemaker and whipping boy, an unfortunate victim whose self-respect was somehow salvaged by the belief that his tolerance and humility alone could shortcircuit impending group disasters. As roadie Sam Curtis perceptively noted: `You could insult him and treat him like dirt and it still didn't matter. He would just tolerate it.'
But to what extent were these rivalries within the group the product of a far greater conflict over which they had much less control? Robert Wace maintains that there were managerial differences of opinion as early as the first Kinks hit: `Suddenly, everybody was jumping on the bandwagon. Larry Page jockeying for position ... If we hadn't got rid of Larry Page, the Kinks would have been finished. It was either him or them.' Not surprisingly, Larry Page saw things differently and still argues that it was his colleagues who had a disconcerting influence on the Kinks: `They saw the Hooray Henrys as money, as stability ... but at the end of the day I was the only person in there with any musical knowledge who could have guided them.'

Predictably, the Kinks found it impossible to commit themselves to one master and those around them were equally divided in their loyalties. Their no-nonsense road manager tended to support the working-class Page, whereas their record producer clearly aligned himself with the Collins/Wace team. Shel Talmy had already felt the sting of rivalry in his relationship with the former Teenage Rage and remains convinced that Page was intent on usurping all his rivals at the earliest opportunity. Yet Page the aggressor was also the diplomat and the man responsible for persuading the group to continue working when their personal conflicts erupted in scarcely believable displays of stage violence. It is hardly surprising that the group was disorientated by the political turmoil. Their lives had become a theatrical drama, the theme of which was the absolute necessity to discover the villain of the piece. In the pop landscape, however, heroes and villains are often indistinguishable, and many managers are called upon to play both roles. The relationship between the Kinks and their management was destined to produce one of the most complex and intriguing examples of group dynamics ever seen in pop history.
The cold war between the managers was brilliantly reflected in the white heat of violent abuse that characterized and ultimately defined the Kinks. Page and Wace blame each other for many of the problems, yet fail to consider one important positive result of their dispute. For without the creative dynamic tension generated by the managerial skirmishes, it is doubtful whether the Kinks would have progressed much further than the north London pub circuit. Or, more accurately, if they • had, their personality as a group structure would have been very different. It is possible that they would have been bland, ordinary and predictable, rather than original, self-destructive and delightfully dangerous. Ultimately, the Kinks' group personality must be defined not merely through the working-class image-mongering of Larry Page or the aristocratic stoicism of W ace and Collins, but the drama and tension created by these vastly conflicting visions. Page and Wace never exchanged blows because their rivalry was consistently relieved vicariously through the Kinks. In this respect alone, the Kinks were to Page and Collins/Wace what Avory was to the Davies brothers - an object of cathartic release from their personal and political confrontations.

The increasing hostility between Page and Collins/Wace was manifested in the physical and emotional state of the Kinks during early 1965. The group suffered illness, injury, exhaustion and unremitting internal friction. Although the rival parties were locked in separate dressing rooms, it was impossible to monitor their every move and one evening, after returning to their hotel, the drummer and younger brother set upon each other like mad dogs, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet. The gentle-natured Avory stormed off in a huff, unable to rationalize the love-hate relationship that had suddenly developed in the group. Road-manager Sam Curtis pinpointed the peculiar group dynamics:

It was the brothers against Mick ... These guys could provoke the Pope! They didn't need anything. They would come down in the morning to go off on tour and when they'd see him they'd say, `Morning cunt'. How would you feel? If somebody says that to you, you just feel like going out on tour with them, don't you? But then, if he didn't he'd starve because he couldn't do anything else.
The constant bickering and petty violence that characterized the Kinks' behaviour offstage was finally made public on an eventful night at the Capitol Cinema, Cardiff, on 19 May 1965. Following their opening number, the incorrigible Dave Davies walked across to Avory for an exchange of insults, and then proceeded to demonstrate his boorishness by dismantling Mick's drum kit with a well-aimed kick. For the publicly humiliated Avory, this was the final straw. With the howls of cheering fans still ringing in his ears, he grabbed the nearest sharp object from the battered drum kit and gashed Dave across the side of the head. The guitarist collapsed in a heap and while his brother attended his bloody wound, the panicstricken Avory fled from the theatre, eventually arriving at Page's door in London, still wearing his stage suit. It was not long before Larry learned the worst. The Kinks were finished. They had vowed never to play together again.

It speaks volumes for Larry's leadership that he was able to bludgeon the Kinks into fulfilling their commitments, which included a stamina-sapping American tour. Unfortunately, the US sojourn was dogged by disputes, poor organization and primadonna displays by the irrepressible Ray Davies. By the time the Kinks bandwagon reached Los Angeles, the group's reputation as a professional unit was virtually non-existent. The last straw for Page was Ray's petulant refusal to appear onstage at the Hollywood Bowl. Although Larry's coaxing won the day, he could not stomach another self-destructive display from Davies and returned to London, leaving the group in the capable hands of their road manager, Sam Curtis.
The fact that Page had refused to play the `gofer' was clearly an intolerable blow to the sensitive Davies ego. Enraged by Page's departure, he transferred his allegiance to the urbane W ace/Collins team. Robert Wace maintains that the decision was by no means unexpected:
'American tours are an eye-opener. If you manage young, temperamental artistes you've got to play the game by their rules. Larry's job was to talk them into honouring contracts. You can't just come back to Denmark Street and play the wheeler-dealer. I don't care what you say: every manager is a whipping boy. It's money geared to grief and aggravation, and that's the equation.'

Page, of course, would never allow himself to be treated as a whipping boy by any artiste, no matter how successful. He refused to be a mere appendage to the Kinks and continued hawking their songs to other performers in the hope of establishing Davies as a name writer. The final threads of their once happy relationship were finally ripped apart one month later when Davies burst into a Sonny and Cher recording session and screamed at his manager: `Get out of the studio. I don't want anything to do with you. Get out of my life.' If Davies assumed that the break with Page might be achieved with a minimum of pain, he was sorely mistaken. A three-year court case ensued between Denmark and Boscobel, which was finally ended in the Kinks' favour by the Appeal Committee of the House of Lords on 9 October 1968.1 Even as he lowered the guillotine, Lord Justice Salmon spared some merciful words for the defeated Page: `I think that almost anything a manager might do however harmless or trivial, could induce hatred and distrust in a group of highly temperamental, jealous and spoilt adolescents.' Ray Davies was less understanding and, two years later, damned all three of his managers in aback-stabbing satirical song, `The Moneygoround'. Unfortunately, space restrictions preclude a complete analysis of the Denmark v. Boscobel action. Readers seeking further information are advised to consult contemporaneous law reports and chapters 5-8 of my previous book The Kinks: The Sound And The Fury (Elm Tree/Hamish Hamilton 1984).

Page's animosity towards the Kinks inflamed his desire to discover an even bigger act. He had already half-heartedly launched a group called the Pickwicks but their theatrical garb and odd choice of material ('Apple Blossom Time') seemed embarrassingly passe. Far more interesting was the critically acclaimed Riot Squad, whose drummer, Mitch Mitchell, later went on to fame and fortune as a member of the Jimi Hendrix Experience. At that point, however, Mitch was more interested in acting than drumming, though his thespian ambitions did not extend far beyond child acting and a bit part in Emergency Ward 10. Although Page had faith in the Riot Squad, it was clear that they were destined to remain a fashionable club band rather than chart cracksmen. The real find, as far as Larry was concerned, was a group that he had already rejected - the Troggs.

Page first met the original Troggs in 1965, when they were hawking their demos around Denmark Street. Although Larry recognized their potential he was wary of incurring the jealousy of Ray Davies by spending time on a group whose material so closely resembled that of the Kinks. In a remarkable display of arrogance, Page told them to continue practising and come back in 12 months' time. Unfortunately, the group was not stable enough to follow his sound advice. Shortly after that meeting they split in half, leaving Dave Wright (vocals) and Reginald Ball (bass) as the surviving members. They inherited the group name, a sizeable amount of hire purchase musical equipment and the financial assistance of a small-time local businessman, Stanley Haydn Phillips. Coincidentally, another Andover group, Ten Foot Five, were suffering similar personnel upheavals and also found themselves reduced to a duo: Peter Staples (bass) and Chris Britton (lead guitar). Their manager, Lance Barrett, a former electrician turned entrepreneur, suggested that it would be an excellent idea if the two groups amalgamated. They now had two bassists, but no lead singer! Eventually, Reg Ball was shoved into the spotlight and encouraged to sing and, incredibly, this new bastardized line-up sounded infinitely better than either of its parent groups. With two managers fighting their case, the revitalized Troggs soon began writing their own material and decided to wage another assault on Tin Pan Alley. The obvious place to start was the Denmark Street office of the man who had cautiously rejected them several months before. Chris Britton remembers Larry's second confrontation with the boys from Andover:
'There he was confronted by four herberts full of enthusiasm and wanting to play him some songs. So we carted our equipment into the back office and he left us with a tape recorder and said, get on with it!'
One week later, the Troggs were taken to Regent Sound to cut a single which Page licensed to CBS. Although `Lost Girl' failed to chart, Larry was willing to persevere with the Troggs for two good reasons. Firstly, he had recently formed a new company, Page One, with the renowned music publisher Dick James, and both parties were anxious to develop new recording and songwriting talent. Secondly, Page was determined to show the Kinks, and the rest of the pop world, that he could easily transform another unknown group into a hit-making machine. The Troggs were chosen as the perfect instrument for Page's revenge.

On 1 February 1966, two years after officially signing the Kinks, Larry was appointed Troggs' manager for a term of five years. His 20 per cent management commission was a considerable improvement on the meagre 10 per cent offered by his previous clients. More importantly, the Troggs' managers, Lance Barrett and Stanley Haydn Phillips, were thrust into the background and agreed to a nominal 5 per cent cut, a figure staggeringly lower than the 30 per cent remuneration enjoyed by Wace and Collins. By this time, of course, Page was one of the most powerful entrepreneurs in the British music business, and like his great predecessor, Larry Parnes, strengthened his position by taking on an additional role as pop impresario. He had already arranged a successful series of concert appearances for Sonny and Cher and, early in 1966, he brought Bob Lind to Britain. At that time Lind was being widely publicized as `the new Bob Dylan', having recently scored with `Elusive Butterfly'. As the first post-protest singer-songwriter, Lind's flicker of fame was momentary, but, characteristically, Page took full advantage of the publicity and the short-term dividends were impressive.
Meanwhile, the search had begun for that all-important first Troggs hit. The group were determined to cut one of their own compositions `With A Girl Like You', but Larry advised them to launch their campaign with a Stateside cover. A pile of demos arrived from New York and Page immediately pounced on the Lovin' Spoonful's `Do You Believe In Magic?' as a certain hit. After further discussion, however, an even more obscure recording, `Wild Thing', was selected as the next A-side.
`Wild Thing' was destined to become one of the great garage group anthems of the mid-sixties and its playfully sexual but decidedly unthreatening macho tone proved perfectly suited to the Troggs' lead singer. Page was astute enough to realize that the group worked best under intense pressure and, incredibly, he recorded their first two singles in a few spare moments following a Larry Page Orchestra booking at Olympia Studios. Within weeks of that session the Troggs were astonished to find themselves proudly standing at number 2 in the charts.
Throughout this period, the Troggs had been signed to a probationary management and agency agreement and it was not until 26 May, several weeks after `Wild Thing' had been released, that they officially committed themselves to Page One Records. The group surrendered copyright control of their recordings for a standard 20 per cent royalty deal. Lead singer, Reg Presley, is still bitter about this decision and feels that a higher percentage should have been offered due to the instant chart success of `Wild Thing'. Page provides an alternative perspective: `I'd say what a nice fellow
'Composer Chip Taylor told me that he wrote `Wild Thing' as a novelty number for Jerry Branigan. After editing the song from 10 to three minutes it became a regional US hit for Jordan Christopher and the Wild Ones, much to Chip's initial embarrassment. That it reached Page at all, Taylor claims, was purely fortuitous: `I asked them not to send it to anybody!' I was to put a record out with no agreement before that and to spend money without a contract!'.

One advantage that the Troggs had over their rivals was the power of Dick James, whose status as the Beatles publisher' enabled Page One to secure substantially higher licensing fees than most of their contemporaries. Even Chris Britton now realizes that if the Troggs had pushed for a higher percentage Page One might have lost the necessary profit incentive to promote their recordings worldwide. As it was, Page ensured that this remuneration was substantially increased by composing many of the group's flip sides and album tracks, thereby gaining a share of the mechanical royalties. According to Britton, Larry was such a persuasive producer that the group felt powerless to veto any of his songs, and probably saw no good reason to increase their own productivity in order to compete with their mentor in the songwriting stakes. Their supplication towards Page was duly noted by the pop press, and as Keith Altham of New Musical Express observed: `It's more noticeable with this group than any other that they have complete confidence in their manager and never mike a move without consulting the office.'

In spite of all his power, Page was not infallible and shortly after the success of `Wild Thing' he made a rare error. While searching for a suitable US outlet for the group, Page was approached by Sonny and Cher's managers, Charlie Greene and Brian Stone. They organized a re-recording of `With A Girl Like You' at Pye Studios, employing session musicians to create a 'Tamla Motown feel', specifically aimed at the American market. The experiment proved interesting, but, eventually, everyone agreed that the hastily recorded Page version was superior. In what Larry now describes as `one of the classic cock-ups of all time', Greene and Stone were allowed to take a master of `Wild Thing' and `With A Girl Like You' back to the States where they attempted to negotiate a deal with Atlantic. At that point, the transatlantic wires became crossed and, assuming that Greene and Stone had been turned down, Page openly finalized a deal with Mercury Records. By the summer, `Wild Thing' was shooting up to number 1 in the US charts when suddenly the same record appeared on the Atco label. To make matters worse, the Atco flip side was `With A Girl Like You', which had been scheduled as the follow up! Greene and Stone argued that there had been an unwritten agreement while Larry replied incredulously: `But you don't release records on a verbal agreement anywhere in the world'. Eventually, the formidable lawyers of Dick James entered the fray and there was an out-ofcourt settlement. For the Troggs, however, the damage had already been done. The complex contractual arguments were beyond their understanding and interest at the time and even today they betray some confusion over `the Atco business'. The lost sales resulting from this dispute proved sufficiently. disconcerting to erode their confidence in the man who had taken them to the top.

For the remainder of 1966, however, Page remained in total control of the Troggs. His creative influence in the studio was matched only by a perennial flirtation with image building and publicity. When the Troggs had first appeared at his Denmark Street office, they were a fashion-designer's nightmare. Reg resembled a provincial mod; Britton was dressed like a beatnik; Ronnie looked like a fifties rocker and Pete Staples clearly hadn't decided which youth subculture deserved his allegiance. Page's first, move, in true Parnes tradition, was to subtly alter a couple of their surnames in order to add a hint of sexuality. Reginald Maurice Ball was rechristened Reg Presley and Ronald James Bullis emerged as Ronnie Bond. Page credits journalist Keith Altham for suggesting the Presley name. It was hoped that Elvis fans might react in some way.,The next stage of the grooming process took place at Carnaby Street's Take Six, where proprietor Sid Brent decked them out in the garish striped suits that later became their visual trademark. Page knew that all the coaching in christendom could not change their country yokel accents and innate naivete, so instead he chose to highlight their provincial homeliness. In contrast to the degenerate yobbish image that Andrew Oldham foisted on the Rolling Stones, Page pupilled the Troggs in Victorian politeness. Whenever a woman entered the room, the group would stand to attention; they responded to questions with such forgotten epithets as `please' and `thank you'. Following their manager's instructions to the letter, they refused to be drawn on any political or religious issue and were seldom heard swearing in public. Chris Britton recalls Page's image-consciousness with great amusement:

'He had this thing about making us change into our suits! It certainly worked. At airports we always got whisked through customs. Around that time there was anti-group propaganda and Larry wanted to make a statement divorcing us from that scene.'
In effect, Page wanted the best of both images - the wild and the innocent. Onstage, the Troggs were anything but demure and polite, and exuded an overt and sometimes comic sexuality that frequently resulted in female fan hysteria. Jealous boyfriends and thuggish jack-the-lads also caused considerable problems during those early months of fame. In Belfast, drummer Ronnie Bond, was thrown from the stage while at other gigs Staples was knocked out and Presley suffered a lacerated face. Page may well have exaggerated these incidents for the benefit of the sensation-seeking music press but he was noticeably quick in despatching three bodyguards to protect his boys for the duration of their summer tour. Larry's energy and industry during this period ensured that the Troggs' bandwagon kept rolling. While the group topped the US charts, Page somehow found time to marry his secretary, Aileen Hampson, record a couple of Troggs EPs and sell the rights to several Reg Presley compositions. While on his honeymoon, Page dutifully plotted a two-part invasion of Europe and considered various offers for Stateside tours. By now, the group was working nightly and their earnings had increased from £670 to £4000 a month. That glorious summer ended with the Troggs"With A Girl Like You' at number 1 in the UK charts.
In interviews of the period, the Troggs claimed their success was `like a dream, like it was happening to someone else'. Their disorientation was not merely the result of sudden fame, for the Troggs had become unwitting pawns in a more elaborate drama beyond their understanding. Page had not simply established another hit group, but exploited the pop market in order to take revenge on the treacherous Kinks. The Troggs' flirtation with fashion and violent fan hysteria insidiously caricatured the dramatic events of the Kinks' career in a parodic manner that greatly appealed to Page's sense of humour. The biggest joke of all was that his country yokels from Andover were outselling and outmanoeuvring the Muswell Hill brigade as a chart act.

The winter of 1966 was a period of expansion for Page One enterprises and Larry signed a number of artistes including several best-selling Continental acts. On 30 September, Page One released the first single under its own logo, appropriately the Troggs' `I Can't Control Myself, one of the most humorously suggestive songs of the era. The sexual overtones were largely ignored by British radio, but the group were not so lucky in Australia where the single was banned from the airwaves and blacklisted by retailers.
The mild controversy surrounding `I Can't Control Myself only served to reinforce the Troggs' popularity and by December 1966, their earnings had risen to £5000 a month. Their golden year ended with that ultimate accolade, a Ready Steady Go spectacular, devoted entirely to their music. As if to comment on the group's recent gruelling schedule, Presley collapsed from exhaustion while recording the show.
During the early months of 1967, Page negotiated the changing fashions in pop music with characteristic astuteness. The Troggs were encouraged to record a Chip Taylor ballad, `Any Way That You Want Me', in complete contrast to their previous raucous singles. Another Top 5 hit proved that Page still had his finger on the pulse. By March, the group's gross earnings. had risen to £7000-a-month and they were indisputably one of the biggest draws on the British concert circuit. Suddenly, Page seemed invincible, though with so many diverse interests, there remained the extremely remote possibility that he might eventually overreach himself.
After spending a year enjoying themselves and soaking up public adulation, the Troggs became increasingly inward looking and concerned about the power that they had vested in Larry Page. In spite of their continued success, they suddenly began to question the decisions of their manager/producer. The Top 20 success of the somewhat unimaginative `Give It To Me' could not disguise the fact that rather than promoting new ideas, Page was falling back on the old `safety first' hit formula. In 1965, he had displayed a similar lack of adventure in objecting to the Kinks' innovative `See My Friend', a single that heralded the emergence of raga rock the following year. Chris Britton recalls the initial symptoms of change in the manager/artiste relationship:

'There was a lack of confidence in Larry's production by that stage. I think he was getting fed up with us being too interested in what was going on. He was great when he had total control of the musical direction, but as soon as we wanted to force our own opinion somewhat it made the management side of things a bit edgy.'

The proposed follow up single, 'M'Lady', was also a source of disagreement between the parties, but the Troggs managed to persuade Page to delete the disc at the eleventh hour. It was replaced by the more atmospheric `Night Of The Long Grass', a brave departure from their previous work, which provided yet another Top 20 hit. Page's willingness to accede to the Troggs' artistic demands on this matter indicated a growing maturity in their working relationship which should have augured well for the future. Unfortunately, Larry chose to loosen his control over the group at precisely the moment when they were most susceptible to the silver tongues of his rivals.
In March, Larry appointed Harvey/Block Associates as the Troggs' booking agents, a decision that he later regretted. The new agents quickly learned that the group still harboured certain mis-givings about Page and were particularly upset that they had never been allowed to tour the States. Before long, Harvey/Block were approached by the equally disgruntled Lance Barrett and Stanley Phillips who suggested the possibility of terminating the management agreement with Page. For the second time in his career Larry was about to cross swords with a rival management team.
The Troggs' attitude towards Page throughout this period remained curiously ambivalent. Although, in private, they voiced concern about the extent of his influence, they were still firmly under his spell. Page's appetite for publicity was insatiable and the Troggs willingly lent themselves to all his schemes, as Britton wryly recalls:

'Larry would get ideas off the top of his head in five minutes flat and have us running around like blue-arse flies doing them. He wanted our names in the papers as much as possible. If we happened to be in an area where somebody needed a boutique, fete or record shop opened, we were loaded into a car and taken there.'

At one point, Larry even interrupted the training sessions of the great world heavyweight champion Muhammed Ali in order to photograph him sparring with the group. Page's most magnificent manipulation of the press, however, occurred in April 1967 when it was announced that Chris Britton was leaving the Troggs.
In the mid-sixties, the fragmentation of a major pop group was always front page news in the music press and Britton's reasons for leaving were far more exciting than that standard euphemism `musical differences'. The Troggs' lead guitarist was supposedly sick of the long-haired, drug-taking image associated with rock groups and his intentions were to spearhead a moral crusade to clean up the pop world! For three weeks, the story dominated the pages of New Musical Express like a long-running pop soap opera. By week two, Page had found a suitable replacement for Britton in the form of former Trogg Dave Wright, who was then playing in another Page One outfit, the Loot. However, it then transpired that Wright's playing was not compatible with the Troggs' sound, so Page drove to Andover in order to confront Britton. The third instalment of this gripping saga saw Page threatening his lead guitarist with a lawsuit for breach of contract. Eventually, Britton decided to face up to his responsibilities and returned to the Troggs just before they set out on their next tour. Every lover of garage group pop breathed a sigh of relief when they heard of this happy ending.
Although the 'Britton Leaving?' vignette has since become part of pop folk-lore, it is intriguing to learn that the entire incident was a deliberate hoax perpetrated by a grand master of sensationalism. Two decades later, Chris Britton reveals the truth and provides an interesting insight into the Page psychology:
'I used to suffer from migraines and was prescribed these pills which were found and checked at customs. I came back to the office complaining about the hassles and Larry must have read some publicity into it. The next thing I knew, people were phoning me and saying, `I hear you're leaving the Troggs'. It got out of control. W e were meant to be flying out of the country a few days later and Larry came up to me and said, `You're going to the airport separately from the others. Dave Wright is going to be there with his guitar and you're going to walk up at the last minute and say, "I'm not leaving after all!"' I said, `Larry, I wasn't leaving in the first place! What's this all about?' But, what the hell, it made some very good publicity.'

The media exposure appeared to spur Page on to even greater achievements. Suddenly, he was treating the Troggs as though they were songwriters of the stature of Lennon and McCartney. Reg Presley saw two of his compositions, `Baby Come Closer' and `10 Downing Street', released in quick succession by the Loot and the Nerve, respectively. During the same month, the unlikely figure of bassist Pete Staples made his songwriting debut with `Oh No', released on Page One by Bobby Solo. With Chris Britton and Ronnie Bond also preparing material, it was clear that all the Troggs had every opportunity to increase their earnings in the future. By the beginning of the summer, their gross intake for concert appearances had risen to £7600-a-month and additional royalties were coming in from record and songwriting sales. Page's elaborate plans for the late summer included an impressive series of Spanish one-nighters providing £800 per gig, almost double the Troggs' standard rate. Negotiations were also taking place for a much publicized `behind the Iron Curtain' trip to Budapest. Without question, Larry Page's managerial potency had reached an all-time peak and the Troggs seemed to have the world at their feet. It was at this point that Page fell victim to an historical peripeteia which irrevocably altered and severely diminished his influence over the mid-sixties pop scene. For all his ambition and adventure, Page never quite managed to convince the Troggs that extensive tours of Australia and America were unnecessary. Two years earlier, he had insisted that it was an absolute necessity to conquer America and verbally coerced Ray Davies into accepting the idea against his wishes.
With the Troggs, however, he completely reversed his policy and even the chart-topping success of `Wild Thing' could not make him change his mind. Whenever the subject was brought up, Page had a ready-made list of objections:

'We'd had one big hit in America and that's not enough to tour with. American charts are based on airplay plus sales. Even at that time a number 1 record was no guarantee that you would pull in crowds. We'd had hits with the Kinks and they played in a classroom where they were putting desks together! I'd seen the big American tours, all the British groups going out there with 22 acts in Harlem. Everybody wanted to see America. `We lost our balls, but we've seen America!' But that's no good. The idea was to make money. The people advising us, the publishers and the lawyers had all worked on the Beatles. None of them felt the time was right for the Troggs.'

Page's protests were voiced with considerable conviction, but beneath the rational exterior there surely lurked strongly emotional feelings connected with his previous visit. The Kinks' tour of America had been the most important event in his managerial career up until that point and it had ended in disaster. Even while the Troggs were moaning about not being allowed to cross the Atlantic, barristers were exchanging arguments about the implications of Page's controversial departure during 1965. Clearly, Larry was in no hurry to tempt fate by returning to the States without a very good reason.
Although Page's position seemed more secure than that of most managers in pop history, the Fates were already conspiring against him. In mid-May, Drew Harvey and Derek Block were approached by the Troggs' former mentors, Barrett and Phillips, with a view to taking over the group's agency and management. On 5 June, Chris Britton extended the same invitation and informed the Troggs of his feelings. A meeting took place in Andover between Harvey, Block, Phillips and the Troggs, during which a suitable course of action was discussed. On 19 June, Page was still working feverishly on the Troggs' summer schedule when he received an undated letter from the group's solicitors terminating management, agency and recording contracts and demanding the return of all monies received from Page One. Later that day, Dick James received a similar letter purporting to terminate the three-year publishing agreement that he had signed with the group on 3 January 1967. Page sat down and shook his head in disbelief. After all he had done for the Troggs, they had rejected him in the same abrupt and unexpected manner as the Kinks two years before. Larry's first move was to drive to Andover in order to confront the boys, but they were already beyond his reach, having absconded to America.
The Troggs' visit to New York proved particularly illuminating. As soon as the American music business community learned that these chart-toppers were in town they converged on them from every angle. Suddenly, the country yokels from Andover were surrounded by the toughest lawyers and most controversial managers of the era. Britton recalls how they were almost swallowed whole by their new American friends:

'When we arrived we began to have various meetings with people but we weren't into their high pressure way of doing business. We were very nervous. They got us into a record company flat in Greenwich Village and were taking us out every evening and showing us a good time. It was great for a couple of weeks. Then things started getting a heavier end to them because we hadn't come up with anything and were still thinking and looking around.'

Eventually, the Troggs were presented with a draft contract, but their problems with Page made them extremely wary of signing anything without expert advice. Unwilling to trust anyone in America, the boys placed a transatlantic call to Stan Phillips who advised them to do nothing until he arrived in New York.
Stanley Haydn Phillips may have been a small-time pop manager but he had clearly inherited that love of drama that characterized the actions of his great rival, Larry Page. Phillips took one look around him and convinced the group that they were completely out of their depth. While heavy-duty managers were still discussing what to do with the Troggs, Phillips plotted the Great Escape. In his mind, it became an intrigue of James Bond proportions and he refused to book a plane flight in case the airports were under surveillance by litigious assailants. Instead, the boys returned home on a Dutch liner in the happy company of a group of college kids. One adventure had ended and another was about to begin.

The indomitable Larry Page was already preparing himself for another court case and on 26 June 1967 he served a- writ against Harvey/Block Associates and the Troggs claiming damages and seeking an injunction to restrain the group from looking for new managers. The case reached the High Court in July 1967, and in the preliminary hearing, the Troggs' counsel successfully argued against an injunction to restrain the group from engaging new managers. Such an injunction would amount to enforcing the performance of personal services by Page to the group and an injunction is never granted which would have the effect of prevent
ing an employer from discharging an agent. Page, it was argued, was effectively in the position of an employer. His Lordship Stamp concluded that the obligations to Page involving personal services were obligations of trust and confidence and therefore could not be enforced. The `personal services' ruling has been the bane of many a manager's life ever since.

The most distressing aspect of the Troggs' case for Larry Page was the broadsides levelled against his managerial integrity. Among the more serious allegations was one of cheating the Troggs. The findings of a chartered accountant sounded especially alarming: `On investigation there was immediately revealed a complete state of chaos in the affairs of the group in the early months of their association with Mr Page.' This provocative statement was later amended by the additional words `in relation to US royalties'. Clearly, this was a reference to the unfortunate 'Atco business' that had so confused Britton and his fellows. Regrettably, however, the accountant was unable to particularize the `chaos' that he had found and justice Stamp concluded that Page's explanation of the position was prima facie convincing. Page must have felt relieved when the sagacious justice Stamp upheld his managerial reputation by dismissing the allegations so forcefully:
'I can only say that having surveyed the evidence as a whole and having examined the particular allegations I am left with the impression that it is as likely as not that the Troggs' case is not only a made-up case, but a case made up for them - not, I hasten to add, by their legal advisers! It is almost entirely unsupported by documentary evidence.'
Chris Britton still feels that justice Stamp's words were rather harsh on the defendants:

'I wouldn't say it was a `made-up case'. It was true that Larry was our agent, manager and record company. And part of the contract was that he would do his best endeavours, which he couldn't do if he was dealing with himself, so he shouldn't have signed us up for them all. He was turning around one day and saying, `Hey, Larry, how about these boys getting a break from recording and going to America?' and with his record company hat on he'd say, `No, no, we're going to make money out of them in England and you're going to get your share as manager!'

It seems from Britton's comments, and those made at the hearing, that Page's position as manager, agent and record company (with the additional involvement of his partner, Dick James, as publisher) was enough to create a severe case of entrepreneurial role conflict. However, Page still believes that his capacity to administer the affairs of the group in every sphere of the music business was not adversely affected by the various contractual inter-relationships:

'It meant I didn't have to go out and fight the world. I could control everything, and if you can control those things you're in a much stronger position. Otherwise, you're begging all the time. All I can say to Chris is since then he's been in a position where he can have separate managers and record companies and has it paid off for him?'

The dispute between the parties was eventually settled on Appeal when the Troggs won back their management and agency rights. However, they had to fulfil the terms of their recording contract with Page One and, as Larry ruefully admits, the relationship between the parties was never the same. Only one more hit followed, the ironically titled `Love Is All Around'. Looking back at that troublesome period, the Troggs betray predictably mixed feelings. Reg Presley's comments on Larry Page were terse and deliberately understated: `He was a very lucky man'. Chris Britton, whose name was put forward as the first defendant in the court case, reveals that by the time the costs of litigation had been totalled up there were no winners. Although he still feels that the Troggs' suit was entirely justified, Britton admits that a High Court action may not have been the most sensible solution to their problems:

'We got a better deal but in doing so we lost the interest of our record company because they didn't know whether it was going to backfire in their faces again. I think the fact that there was ever a court case was more instigated by Stan and Lance than either Larry or us. I don't think we'd have thought of it ourselves. It was more an intermanagement squabble than a group quarrel. We'd probably have sorted it out with Larry directly, but Stan's attitude was more along the lines of Queen's Counsel. Stan was working for our interests though. I don't think he resented his 5 per cent deal. He just thought Page wasn't doing it right.'

One agreement that survived the Troggs' association with Page was the additional tie-up with Dick James Music Ltd. Due to the options clauses stipulated in their three-year contracts, both Britton and Presley still owe the company a number of songs. Presley in particular is still bitter about the standard contract whereby he assigned to James worldwide copyright of all his musical compositions. In Larry Page's estimation, however, Presley's problems were largely of his own making:

'They've had more bloody money out of there than you'd believe. Reg must be signed there for the next 200 years! ... Reg used to go in there and say, `Can I have an advance and I'll write X songs this year?' And Dick would say, `OK', give him a big advance and he'd write next to nothing. He'd go in later and ask for another advance and Dick, like a prat, would give him another few grand. So there was a huge debt of songs and he kept doing this. Reg was always in there for money. I used to say to him, `If you're not happy, write the songs and get out of it!' Dick gave him the opportunity time and time again.'

Following his litigation with the Kinks and the Troggs, Larry gradually became disillusioned with pop groups and increasingly spent time selling minor talent and extending his production and publishing concerns. It was clear that he had made several mistakes as a manager, underestimating the troubled spirit of Ray Davies during the Kinks' US tour and embroiling himself in disputes with producers and agents. Had he been Epstein, a disaster like the 'Atco business' would have plagued him for far longer. But Page was allowed to fade into the background and, unlike Epstein or Oldham, retained his dominions, though there were several changes. The once vibrant Page One fell into a state of limbo when the two directors separated in order to pursue their own individual projects. James founded DJM Records and Larry launched Penny Farthing. Page's new record company retained few of the artistic ideals associated with the great independent labels of the sixties. Whereas he had once taken a healthy interest in such up-and-coming groups as the Loot, the Nerve, Plastic Penny and Craig (featuring Carl Palmer), Larry spent the seventies pulling in easier money with horrendous one-off novelty discs such as Chelsea Football Club's `Blue Is The Colour' and Danny LaRue's `On Mother Kelly's Doorstep'. He admits that his only hit discoveries were Daniel Boone and Continental star Kincade. His forte for discovering obscure garage groups and developing their image and musicianship sufficiently to produce million-selling records remained sadly dormant and his once high media profile was replaced by a quiet industry. As fellow 60's manager Simon Napier-Bell remarked:

'Larry is a careful, calculating person. He's still not a major record company but he's built up a catalogue that sells all over the world. There's no flamboyance there. I'd say 80 per cent of the people in the music business, including the top acts, have never heard the name Larry Page. But he's a very wealthy, extremely successful person.'
The portrayal of Larry Page as an unflamboyant, behind-the-scenes worker seems strangely contradictory in view of his previous headlining exploits. Yet, Napier-Bell's assessment seems largely correct. Larry may be a living legend in the annals of contract law and a seminal figure in the history of British pop management, but megastars, gossip columnists and trade paper scribes no longer beat on his door. However, there is some evidence to suggest that Page may revive his managerial activities sufficiently to re-establish his former media fame. For some time, he has been carefully developing the career of Jade, a teenage chantress who has already enjoyed television exposure and features in the daily national press. Page betrays a paternal protection for his young star and obviously spends considerable time warning her of the pitfalls of the music business. Although Larry hopes that the girl will take heed of his advice, he is cynical enough to know that the threat of usurpation is ever present:

'You read two court cases with Larry Page and you think, `God help us!' But I've never screwed anybody. And that little girl, Jade, will go through her accounts and her contracts even more closely because of those past problems. She knows more about the business at her age than anybody. I've educated her. But if she wanted to leave us, what are you going to do? How are you going to stop her? All you can do is build up a relationship of trust and make sure the artiste gets every penny that's owed to them. I've always been honest with artistes, but they get greedy. Somebody once said to me, `All artistes are animals, they're the enemy', and he's not far wrong! But I want to be friends with my artistes. I know Jade. I know Reg Presley and Chris Britton better than any psychiatrist could know them. You know everybody that you deal with. You've got to know them.'

It might be assumed that Page's litigious history would at least ward off potential music business opponents. Incredibly, however, 20 years on, Larry is still fighting off rival pop managers in true sixties fashion:

'Jade has now been signed to me for years. Today, we get a call from somebody pointing out that he's got a signed contract with her. Isn't that lovely? He said to my secretary, `Tell him •I don't want any problem. I don't want lawyers. I just want money.' Bang! He can get the bloody lawyers! That's the game. That is our business.'

Unexpected confrontations with the past are nothing new to Larry Page. Indeed, a close scrutiny of his music business career reveals an almost obsessive revisionism, as though some strange force was relentlessly driving him on to rewrite a happy ending to all his battle-scarred exploits. When his singing career foundered, Larry attempted to re-enact his fame vicariously by creating an artiste in his own name. The alter ego was a symbolic rejuvenation and a second chance for Larry Page (alias Lenny Davies) to become a national star. When Lenny failed to hit the big time, Page found another couple of Davies's and soon established the Kinks as a household name. When the group rejected their master, Page reacted with his customary trick of re-creation. The Troggs not only specialized in Kinks' covers but promised to provide a vicarious happy ending to their predecessor's unfortunate saga. Instead, they left Page in an almost carbon copy of the Kinks' court case.
Page was bitter and disillusioned about the Troggs' defection but he could never resist the temptation to turn back the clock and rewrite those bloody pages of pop history. By the early seventies he had won back the Troggs' management, thereby reversing any adverse public opinion associated with the controversial court case. The relaunched Troggs, which included Plastic Penny's Tony Murray in place of Pete Staples, achieved cult status in the United States, but in spite of some mischievous ploys, the old hit formula could not be rediscovered. Nevertheless, Page had achieved a reasonably happy ending, as Tony Murray confesses:

'The arrangement with Larry was satisfactory and the contract was quite good. He brought us over to the States and got us a half page in the New York Times which did us no harm. There was no animosity when we parted.'

Although Page had righted the wrongs of history with the Troggs, a stinging thorn remained in his side that continued to fester. His old enemies, the Kinks, had not only survived their gruelling three-year court case, but went on to reap spectacular financial rewards in the lucrative US market. That irony was not lost on Page whose dream of conquering the Americas had been allconsuming during 1965. When I first interviewed him in 1982, the bitterness of those earlier years was still present. He portrayed the group as ungrateful animals who had bitten the hand that fed them. And how could he ever forgive Ray Davies who had testified in court that he hated his manager? These were Page's feelings as he catalogued the transgressions that probably cost him his rightful position in the pantheon of all-time great pop managers.

Fate has played many tricks on Larry Page over the years, but the strangest happening of all occurred in the spring of 1984 when he received a telephone call from Ray Davies. Nineteen years after their bust-up, the ever unpredictable Kink had decided to offer a truce. In one of the most remarkable turnabouts in rock history, Page agreed to place his hand back in the fire by taking over the Kinks' management for a second time. It says much about Page's psychology that he could place his negative feelings in a historical context. His former adversary, Grenville Collins, summed up the reconciliation with a humorous aside, `He must be a glutton for punishment'. But Larry Page is no fool. With the influence he exerts on the Continent, he has the potential to restore the reputation of the Kinks in territories that they had probably forgotten existed.
The behaviour of Larry Page is habitual. He is again rewriting history. By winning back the Kinks, he has proved to himself and the world that his managerial charisma has not been eroded by the ravages of time. Whether the Kinks remain under his wing in the foreseeable future is now scarcely relevant. The victory is complete, for Page has already written himself into pop history as the manager who lost two of the most successful groups of the mid-sixties and then miraculously retrieved them during the successive two decades. Not content with that achievement, Larry has recently won back ownership of the name Page One. Is there no end to this retrospective re-assimilation?
Somewhere in Eire, that forgotten figure, Little Lenny Davies, plays on in a different persona, no longer dreaming of chart fame but vaguely aware of recent developments and no doubt wondering whether his former mentor will again defy the laws of time and complete a star-making process begun 25 years ago that should have transformed the diminutive Dick Hayes into a second Teenage Rage.

BY JOHNNY ROGAN